Keep the Faith

Sing like him.

How could one afford sleep at a night like this? The priceless pristine jewel, which we call the coronation of the moon, diminished itself onto my face as I was attempting the best night sleep I could acquire at the moment.
The spades and aces in the sky shone ever since tomorrow, and the beacons of rhubarb amber stone quaking in the moonlight distracted my eyelashes from shutting them tight.

The zodiac...the genesis...the metaphysics of suburban folklore demented in vigil eyes. They all are whom I have become inside. Constellations and midnight hues falling above me like the Aurora borealis in quantum feudalism. It's amazing how the world tricks you--asleep, and the ground is slowly rotating underneath your feet.
Thoughts billowed my head, creating a furrowed dream that was blurred far from arms reach.

I can't sleep.

The small, carcinogenic little girl without an occipital portal into a dream of anything at all...all there was was merely just the desire to be free. No inspiration and no faith unknown.

“That’s all I want. A hero in my life…”

Hear that? Little girl can't sleep.

Rancid dreams…bottled in the red, raspy colloid of blood as hemoglobin and strychnine soured binary sting bind the pain with the wound. Solemnize, ostracize and deny me who can’t believe the dream. There’s nothing better than belief to be someone someday. Jingle town, and the underground diamonds crushed by paper glass.

The graffiti scribbled on my face spelled, “No such thing as hero.”

But who ever would trust make-up?

Champagne dust and ruby-red rust in a sherbet bomb of ultraviolet cadence exploited from an unknown rainbow of shattered eyes. I stride outside, looking for the roulette of the earth at that time. And a parade in black, and epaulets visit the insomniac with sullen eyes afraid to open as much as much as lachrymose lies are met.

Papa, I apologize.

Mama, I want to be free.

It’s me or nothing alone. And fairytales and fables become my life, where Peter Pan and Dolly Parton combine.

Our names carved and ensnarled in the hilt of the forked tree, whose shade I used to sleep underneath in silence. The sullen riot, the angered brigade and the jar of delirium as soft-spoken as words could be. And that obelisk that isolates the sfumato in the sforzato of how Mama and Papa painted me alive. Airborne brilliance takes me high and all the best dreams come true.

That’s how love led me to you.

The tales of home and the murals of the old and broken bones. The frayed brown ink and monochromatic sepia of rose petals crashing down as sulfur on me. The remegial wings the clouds the stories and lives build upon. Confetti made from brittle rubber and butane on arsenic and mercury mar no mortal for they are chemicals to love.
A ripple of faith echoing as it leaps one wave after another second the tumbling of ruby red tears plod down my tyro’s face. Pallid corneas and crushed scales descending their obstinate remedy as the percussion and the metal genre come to life.

Play the dream. They are playing the dream, and all you need is an incubus for them to rival. They speak of faith; even at first glance they send dynamite trickling down your throat. Gemini beings, all different, yet the same…family they seem—dead, but yet alive. First apple in eye’s heed, the vocalist breathes the truth crucified, but never nailed.
He speaks of lies, but when time dies, they all fall in the hourglass as real. They have no Hollywood flare, no bling bling stare and no dazzling faux pas to represent the thieves who claim to have voices. They were the first to be heroes to many.

And unashamed of such a voice, no matter what anyone would dare retort.

Wizards with no celestial glow; madmen with the taste for revenge, but concede no knives; jokers who foul play; superheroes with far-known identity. With cutlass ostensibly, a voice with a rage that could force flames to shatter to ice, and evil minds priceless enough for pilgrims to buy.
Instead of expected words such as “hang yourselves before I fuse this match,” they detonate and instigate, “my life is nothing without you,” by my penny’s worth and false worthy hi-jinx. Reminding me of Neverland and vigilante justice in one mind, all they are screaming is breathless inspiration. And all they want is the better for you than me.

The auditory complex dimmed from the lights making all visible shadows white and dreams of shame masticated by champagne. I walked onto the coronary of the asphalt street with cement residue on my feet and nicotine streaks of tears roll down my eyes. But he won’t let me go…he got me and saved my life.
He was an angel without wings and with just 5 lucky stars on his chest. He sacrificed them to save lives one by one. I look at him as he smiles at me, like I’m a child with not a guided mind.

He says to I, “You’re the dream of my life.”

The drums and the sounds and the confetti grounds boom without coronation. The trumpets and the cymbals harmonize. Guitarists and bassists and percussion institutions sing all with the same voice no one ever dared to ever sing.

In everyday life, my life is nothing to sing about. Everyday I dream of nothing and then psychopaths and epitaphs of incinerating the butane skies colonize the internal vitality of what I think. No dream of mine is real nor is it true. Where bloodstains live and false thoughts come to life.
Sculptures and caricatures, cartoons and movies become animated fairytales. The 711 and the jettisoned spiels become lies. The media and the camera are the eyes of failure. Their memories are printed out into hell.

The hero glides, grabs his microphone like an obelisk and summons words no scepter could even hold. The ground shakes, the earthquakes of my dreams come to life. Holding on, the hero brings me back to life.

“Believe in us all and we’ll believe in you.”

But that’s the thing—I don’t know how to tell the truth. Everyday, I’m living up to just lies. I’ve been pitting myself to somnambulism and the like of insomnia from prevarication and idiosyncrasies without the confinement on a dossier. And all I needed was something booming out of decibel.

Waking up felt more than the difference subtracted from before. The quandary of staying the same as a saint and defeating bad guys was more than vigilante fame. Disoriented and deluded from rip-offs and counter-clockwise turntables and hourglasses crackled from paper eyes.
Artemis a masochist and Zeus a pilgrim on Mount Olympus’s poverty grounds as Hades kills Odin and the like. Now Leto and Uncle Sam are the only shadows that can say goodnight.

Bittersweet taste of smitten oxygen salt-tinged and incinerated fulfills my lungs with the Devon Debonair of strife. No other extraordinary being even the monarch who flies higher than belief could ever save me from the fear I conceive.

“Little hero, you see the man you’re talking to?”

Yes sir.

“Well then, believe in him. Sing like him. He’s all you can have in the world who can love you so much. All you need…is to believe in him like he believes in you.”

Don’t worry dad. I believe in you.